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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22590946">dust devil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Anne'>Anne (Steve)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout: New Vegas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, F/F, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:42:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>614</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22590946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Anne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s sharp elbows, hard grins, soft eyes, bony fists, shaking when she shoots a gun, breezy when she kills a man. Quick to kill, quick to lie, quickest of all to steal, shoving everything that’s not tied down into her pockets or rucksack without a second thought.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rose of Sharon Cassidy/Female Courier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>dust devil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Clearing out some old bits &amp; bobs from my hard drive. Here's a scrap of some character writing I did for my Courier way back when.</p>
<p><b>cw:</b> slurs, references to past abuse</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She makes up pretty stories about fire and stars, when people ask about things like family, things like childhood or growing up or home. Most people these days know better than to ask, but some expect her to share a bit, offer a piece of herself after they dump their own life stories on her. Sometimes she doesn’t make up stories; sometimes she just grins her hard nasty grin and takes another swig from her drink. That’s answer enough, and most who know her have come to expect silence more often than not.</p>
<p>Armel Finch has got nothing to hide, nothing she’s afraid of talking about. But she knows that silence, her air of <em>mystery</em>, it’s a big part of her appeal. And the fire and stars aren’t just stories—they’re real, too.</p>
<p>The other parts—well, here’s what Armel Finch really remembers of her early life—</p>
<p>Hard, parched ground, fat brown cockroaches crawling across her skin. Hunger carving a ditch in her belly. A man with a nasty backhand, who expected her to flinch every time he raised his voice, who only got madder when she didn’t, when she wasn’t normal. Inhuman moron creepy retarded bitch <em>child</em>, words hurled at her as she’s forced over knees, a chair, a stump, the bite of the belt buckle marking her skin again and again. Hands on her, yanking her hair, squeezing her throat, everywhere, <em>everywhere.</em></p>
<p>The acrid smell of burning flesh, making her stomach turn. Grinning shrapnel sharp through the blood pooling in her mouth.</p>
<p>Fire. Stars. Still hungry but—blissful quiet. Alone.</p>
<p>Armel Finch as a child found her peak <em>alone</em>. She hated the noise and pointy edges of other people, didn’t understand them, what they were always talking about, words words words, couldn’t figure out how they could rub against each other without everything hurting.</p>
<p>She learns to pretend to understand how the pieces all fit together, later. It makes things easier, pretending.</p>
<p>She’s sharp elbows, hard grins, soft eyes, bony fists, shaking when she shoots a gun, breezy when she kills a man. Quick to kill, quick to lie, quickest of all to steal, shoving everything that’s not tied down into her pockets or rucksack without a second thought.</p>
<p>It bothers Cass and she doesn’t understand why. She doesn’t understand why she cares what Cass thinks. Or that’s not right—she <em>doesn’t</em> care what Cass <em>thinks. </em>But she gets mad when Cass threatens to leave. And that’s confusing, frustrating.</p>
<p>Months pass. Cass stays, a lot of people stay.</p>
<p>Armel stops turning tense and still, wary, whenever Cass’s breath gets too heavy with whisky. And Cass doesn’t yell at her anymore when Armel shoots up, hands steadied, eyes darting around whip-fast. She holds Armel’s shades when Armel needs to dive behind a bush to chuck her guts out, after. She leans forward and brushes some stray leaves off the collar of Armel’s jacket, and mutters, nothing but peppermint and tobacco on her breath, “Looking good there, Finch. Real sexy.”</p>
<p>Armel flips her the bird.</p>
<p>Cass’s mouth quirks up, and she reaches forward to perch the sunglasses back on Armel’s nose. Straightens them, turns a little away to squint at yellow sky. “There we go. Keep those WoMDs holstered, am I right?”</p>
<p>Armel grins, now. Bends forward to rest her chin on Cass’s shoulder. “You think my eyes are that ugly, then? Harsh.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be a smartass.” Cass is determinedly looking Not At Her. “Everyone knows those baby browns are the softest part about you. They’re fuckin’ devastating.”</p>
<p>“Enough to convince a drunk to walk through the Mojave with no promise of coin at the end of it?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” says Cass. “Enough for that.”</p>
<p> </p>
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